Hard Rain

coming
    toward me. It was a pizza delivery scooter with a portable warmer
    strapped to the back and a sign advertising the shop that had
    dispatched it. I watched carefully to confirm that it was nothing
    other than what it seemed. Yeah, just a young guy trying to make a few
    extra yen with a late night job. I could smell the pizza from inside
    the warmer.
    I had an idea.
    I flagged him down. He pulled up next to me.
    "Can you do me a favor?" I asked him in Japanese. "For ten thousand
    yen."
    His eyes widened a bit. "Sure," he said. "What is it?"
    "There's a building at the end of this street, on the right as you
    approach it from this direction. It's got an awning and a bunch of
    garbage containers stacked up along its side. I think a friend of mine
    might be waiting for me there, but I want to surprise him. Can you
    drive past it from the other direction, take a good look as you go by,
    and tell me if you see anyone there?"
    His eyes widened more. "For ten thousand yen? Yeah, I can do that'
    I pulled out my wallet and took out a five-thousand-yen note. "Half
    now, half when you get back," I said.
    He took the money and buzzed off. Three minutes later he was back.
    "He's there," he said. "Right where you told me."
    "Thanks," I said, nodding. "That was a lifesaver." I gave him the
    other five thousand yen. He looked at it, his expression momentarily
    unbelieving. Then he broke into an enormous, sunny grin.
    "Thanks!" he said. "This is great! Anything else you need?"
    I smiled and shook my head. "Not tonight."
    He looked a little wistful, then smiled again as though he knew he'd
    been hoping for too much. "Okay, thanks again," he said. He gunned
    the engine and drove away.
    I untaped the baton and palmed it in my right hand. I took out
    Yukiko's pepper spray and held it in my left. I moved with the
    furtiveness I had learned in long-range recon patrols in Vietnam,
    hugging the buildings I passed, checking each corner, each hot spot,
    confirming it was clear before advancing farther.
    It took- me almost a half-hour to cover the hundred meters to the
    ambush site. When I was three meters away, the cover provided by the
    garbage bins had thinned too much for me to go any further. I hunkered
    low, waiting.
    Five minutes went by. I heard the strike of a match, then saw a cloud
    of blue smoke waft out from just beyond a stack of the containers.
    Whoever was waiting there wasn't Murakami. Murakami wouldn't have done
    something so stupid.
    I eased the pepper spray back into a pocket and slowly extended the
    baton to its full length, tugging at the end to ensure that the
    components were locked in position, gripping it in my right hand. I
    watched the smoke rising from in front of me and timed the inhalations
    and exhalations. I waited until I knew he was inhaling, when his
    attention would be somewhat distracted by the pleasure of sucking in
    all that tasty nicotine. In, out. In, out. In ... I leaped out from
    where I was crouching and shot forward, the baton arm curled past my
    neck as though I was trying to scratch my opposite shoulder, my free hand up, defending my
    face and head. I covered the distance in an instant and saw the man as
    soon as I cleared the edge of the garbage containers just behind him.
    It was one of Murakami's bodyguards, wearing a black waist-length
    leather jacket, with shades and a wool watch cap for light disguise.
    He'd heard the sudden sound of my approach and was in the midst of
    turning his head toward me when I burst into his position.
    His mouth started to drop open, the cigarette dangling uselessly from
    his lips. His right hand went for one of the coat pockets. I saw
    everything slowly, clearly.
    I stepped in with my right foot and whipped the baton into the side of
    his face. His head ricocheted left from the force of the blow. The
    shades flew off. The cigarette shot out of his mouth, tumbling like a
    spent rifle cartridge, followed by an explosion of teeth and blood. He
    staggered back into the building and started to slide down the wall. I
    stepped in close and brought the butt end of the baton up under his
    chin, arresting his descent.
    "Where's Murakami?" I asked.
    He coughed up a mass of blood and dental matter.
    I patted him down while he gagged and tried to collect himself. I
    found a Kershaw knife like Murakami's in his coat and a cell phone in a
    belt clip. I pocketed both.
    I pressed hard with the baton. "Where is he?" I asked again.
    He coughed and spat. "Naka da," he said, the